


It's the Little Things

by ForFutureReference



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Dex canonically has as many skills as he has uncles, Even when they are idiots... especially when they are idiots, Fluff, M/M, Nursey has just as many feelings that he doesn't know what to do with, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pre-Relationship, Roommates, Skillsets as a form of affection, Soft boys being soft..., Very very awkward displays of affection from our ginger lobster.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12870978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForFutureReference/pseuds/ForFutureReference
Summary: Five times Dex utilizes as a skillset to help Nursey out, and one time that Nursey uses his skill to help Dex out.Takes place Year 4 of Bitty's time in Samwell. Year 3 for the Frogs. First semester.





	1. Chapter 1

A bump… A snag… A tear…

At the sound of ripping fibers, blood drains from my face, and my chest constricts as I peer hesitantly at my sleeve and hope against hope that what I think just happened didn’t.

Despite that hope, a small jagged hole mars my sleeve and sends a jolt as painful as a check to the solar plexus.

I take a few steadying breaths as I trudge the rest of the way downstairs. _No big deal. No big deal at all._ Doesn’t matter that this is the cardigan that my grandma gave to me right before I went to Samwell. Doesn’t matter that it provided comfort on days when I didn’t feel like facing the world. These things happen. _It’s alright. It’s fine. It’s…_

“Chill.”

Of course I utter that word in the threshold of the basement while it’s occupied by my new roomie.

The word might as well be Pavlov’s bell. As if by instinct, two rings of molten metal look up to shine at me from darkness beyond a window. Dex says nothing, but he probably wishes that he could make the figurative flames in that glare literal.

_And things just keep getting better…_

I hoped that it wouldn’t be this way. I’ve been hoping that we figured things out by the end of last semester. Nope. The semester started as an uneasy truce. Then I had my little spill, and the whole situation deteriorated exponentially. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, Dex moved out. I mean, yeah, I told him that he'd leave by fall, but I didn't think he'd actually do it.

 _Whatever. Right now I’m tired and don’t have time for this shit._ Instead of acknowledging Poindexter’s perpetual pissiness, I move for the washing machine so I can get things over with, call it an afternoon, and be done with this day.

“Wait.”

Dex’s word, and the sound of his window being slid up, is a barrier that stops me before I can even take two steps forward. It also makes me stumble and almost crash right into the washing machine.

If he notices, he makes no mention as he usually loves to do. In fact, I notice that his eyes no longer point at my face but have shifted down to torso-level.

Before I can blurt out an obligatory chirp, Dex beats me to the punch: “You hit that spot by the top of the stairs, didn’t you.”

It draws me up short. “Yeah. How—“

“I need to fix that soon before somebody ends up cutting themselves open,” he sighs before nodding at my sleeve. “You have some way to fix that sweater?”

“It’s a cardigan.” Because a petulant correction is really the only reasonable way to deal with this surreal scenario.

Surprisingly, Dex doesn’t take the bait. “Whatever. Question still stands.”

“Not really.” I’ll probably find a place to get it fixed once I return home. I know Geema’s not going to be angry or anything, but that doesn’t lessen the feeling that I’m letting her down.  

Dex stares at me for a couple seconds before heaving another sigh and looking back down to his computer. “Lemme finish this paragraph first.” Without looking up, he makes a grabby motion in my general direction.

My body responds before my mind can catch up. As soon as the cardigan’s off, I lob it towards Dex, who snatches it from mid-air with one hand while using the other to save whatever he’s working on.

With his full attention now on the cardigan, Dex’s eyebrows furrow into another scowl — more confused than the previous pissy —  as he handles the garment.

“The fuck is this? Alpaca?”

I have to keep my eyes from widening at the fact that Dex even knows what alpaca fleece is like. “Qiviut, actually.”

For a second, Dex freezes. Then grumbles, “Of course.” _Great, is this going to be a rich people thing? Because—_ “Leave it to you to wear the fluffiest shit.”

“What can I say, Poindexter?” I lean up against the surprisingly sturdy wall of his subterranean bungalow and offer what I hope is an easy grin to masks my continued shock. “It’s the fine things in life.” It also helped got me through today, which was just… off for no real reason. It goes without saying that I’m not going to blurt that fact out. At least not now.

Dex snorts at my comment but, at the same time, still runs his hand along the fabric and nods in clear appreciation. Unaware of how much those little reactions reveal. Then again, William Poindexter always seems to have surprises up his sleeve.

“Should be an easy fix.”

Dex’s voice knocks me out of my reverie, and I respond accordingly: “Wha?”

“I said that this should be an easy fix,” he huffs while holding the now-inside-out cardigan up. “I mean… if you want me to…”

For a moment, all the hard lines and jagged edges melt away, leaving Dex looking strangely hesitant and vulnerable. As if he’s unsure where to go from here and is leaving the choice up to me. I have a foreboding feeling that the choice I make will either open a door for me… or lock it forever.

“Sure,” I drawl and pull up a box to sit right by the window. “I’m up for it.”

I don’t know if my choice is in the right, but either way the moment passes, and Dex gets up and strides with business-like purpose over to a shelf that holds his toolbox.

“Going to nail it closed, Poindexter?” I chirp. Because I have to.

He puts minimal effort in flipping me off before grabbing a different container. It’s one of those fancy assorted Danish cookie tins. Before I can ask, he sits back down by the window and pops the lid off to reveal what might as well be an entire craft store.   

Without pause, Dex grabs two spools of thread of similar color, holds them up to my cardigan, tosses one back into the tin, and cuts a length from the other before tossing it back in as well.

“Not a single word,” he growls while plucking a needle from a pincushion. A _lobster_ pincushion.

“Hmm…” My not-word doesn’t make Dex stop, though he still narrows his eyes at me as he needles the thread. _Or is it ‘threads the needle’?_

Then he gets to work.

It’s hypnotizing to watch. When you see Dex’s hands, it’s hard to not notice the calluses, cracks, and scars. Things that hint of hard work and strength, be it hauling lobster traps, hammering out a stubborn nail, or hitting an accurate slapshot.

However, those same marred hands move with a swift but delicate grace as they guide the needle where it needs to go with little pause. A fluid elegance that hints at the softness of his puck handling and precision of appliance repairs.

The whole time, Dex wears yet another scowl. The same focused glare he brings to the ice to concentrate on the puck and intimidate the opposing team. It’s as if he’s daring the ever-closing tear to resist.

These little connections to what I know about Dex don’t lessen the wonder that I feel in watching him now.

“It’s a useful skill. ‘Be prepared’ and all that.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d mistake Dex’s mumbled comment for mind-reading. “You better stop reading my mind.”

Another huff. “Like I’d want to hop into that hipster hellscape,” he says before wincing at his own words.

I don’t let it go: “Aaww… that almost sounds poetic, Dexy.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he shoots back. “Anyways you were just very obvious in your surprise when I brought out my kit. That’s all.”

“Oh…” It still catches me off-guard whenever he gets a read on me. “How long have you been doing this?”

Dex shrugs as much as he can without disrupting his work. “Long enough. How else do you think I’ve kept the same clothes going?”

I don’t have any answer to that. Instead, I continue watching him work. Before long, he creates a knot, pulls it taut, and trims away dangling ends.

Dex declares completion by sending the cardigan flying straight into my face.  

As I unwrap the garment from my head, he’s already going over the contents of his kit. “Hope it works,” he mutters while shutting the tin and putting it back in place. “Let me know if anything’s off. It’s my first time handling qiviut, so…”  A shrug.

It actually takes me a while to relocate the tear. When I find the little wrinkle that betrays the now-closed hole, it’s obvious to me that the blemish will become lost within the overall texture of the fabric.

“It’s… It…” It’d be great if my damn throat could open up and actually allow me to say something. “Thanks,” I finally breathe out, holding the cardigan tight to my chest.

The only affirmation I receive from Dex is a dismissive wave and grunt as he grabs his window and slides it shut.

If I notice some redness creeping up his ears, I make no mention of it.      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is also available on my [tumblr](http://randomnoteforfuturereference.tumblr.com/post/167755890789/its-the-little-things-i) if that's what you prefer.


	2. Chapter 2

Um… remember that time when Dex grumbled about needing to fix a certain spot by the stairs lest someone cut themselves open on it?

Well…

“Gah!” The gasp leaves my lungs the same time that a searing sting rips into my forearm and my hand clasps over it.

_Well this is embarrassing. Hopefully it doesn’t get any undue attention._

“Oh for FUCK’S SAKE!”

_… Chill._

The exclamation distracts me from the pain, and I look up to see a half-naked Dex frozen in the process of exiting the ground floor bathroom.

Normally the sight of an ever-reddening him in a bath towel, with his still-damp hair sticking out at haphazard angles, would be laugh-worthy.

I’m not amused now at the sight of his tight jaw and clenched fists, nor the dilation of his pupils intensifying the fiery coronas around them.

Those coronas flick between two spots: the fucked-up basement stair railing segment that he’s ranted about periodically for the past couple years… and my arm.

Oh. Yeah. _My arm._

The throbbing wave of heat blossoming out from my forearm and steady patter forces me to look down.

Despite my hand clamped on my forearm, sluggish rivulets of crimson continue to dribble out between my fingers to drip onto the wooden floor. The sight releases a surge of nausea that clouds my vision and makes the surroundings wobble.

At least I didn’t wear my cardigan today.

Maybe Dex’s ruckus will attract the attention of someone who can take me to the hospital.

A muffled groan drifts up from the living room: “Keep it down will you…”

Or not. _People can be so supportive…_

Dex storms forward while glaring daggers in my general direction.

I’ve always wondered if I’d go out in a crime of passion.

However, when Dex reaches me, he exhibits a surprising level of gentleness in grabbing my shoulder firmly and maneuvering me towards the bathroom. All while speaking in that quiet collected manner whenever he’s gone _past_ pissed-off: “We need to get that fixed.”

With my wits beginning to get back to normal, I nod and follow Dex’s lead into the still-steamy bathroom. He turns on the faucet and instructs me to wave my arm under the running water. I try not to pass out at the sting of the tap water or sight of my own blood blossoming out in the sink bowl.

“Nursey, what’s going o—oh.”

As I continue to rinse my arm, I glance up at a wide-eyed Chowder. Still in his boxers and panting from running down here, he looks a bit green in the gills while glancing between me and Dex.

“Fucking banister. Have it handled, C.” If Dex is trying to be reassuring, the still-present tightness and monotony of his speech undercuts any attempt.

“You’re telling me that I shouldn’t worry about all… this?” Chowder supplements that question with a wild gesture towards me. “Bullshit.”

“I have it handled,” Dex repeats while removing the first aid kit from under the sink. As if to mock his statement, the opened kit reveals itself to be pitifully empty, and a frustrated snarl makes it obvious that he wants to bash the box against the wall.

After turning off the water and handing a cloth to me, Dex asks Chowder play caretaker. “Will take a few minutes. Keep pressure on until I get back,” he mutters with a hardened expression before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

As Chowder kneels next to me, he asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m…” _I’m in pain. I’m a clumsy mess. I’m concerned for my roommate._ “Chi—”

“Nursey, if you say ‘chill’ this one time,” Chowder warns, “I’m going to channel Dex.”

Despite the movement sending a fresh burst of pain though my arm, I still can’t help but chuckle at the image of Chowder in flannel, Mainer accent, and a bad attitude. He must be thinking the same thing as he perks up with light laughter of his own.

Our good humor ends abruptly with both of us jumping at the sound of a massive splintering crash. Followed by another. And another.

“What the…” Chowder breathes while getting up. As he opens the door a crack and peers out, all the color drains from his face.

“Dex?” I assume, which just gets a nod in return. I thought him going on a rampage would be accompanied by screaming and obscenities. Instead the attacks are accompanied by silence.

I think I’d prefer the obscenities.

“Fuck, I said keep it—holy shit.” _Speaking of obscenities…_ While I can’t place the voice — they may not even be SMH — I do peg it as being from the same person who was so helpful earlier. Envisioning the poor schmuck being fried on the spot under the gaze of a rudely-interrupted Dex buoys my disposition. “Uh… carry on.”

With the interruption likely gone, the crashing continues.

Chowder sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose while asking me, “You think you got that handled?”

“Holding this in place?” I note with a nod to the towel. “Haven’t screwed that up so far.”

“Fair enough,” he acknowledges before striding out of view. Seconds later, I hear his voice: “What the hell are you doing?”

Dex’s response is quiet and mumbled enough that I can’t tell what being said.  

“You’re supposed to look after Nursey.”

More mumbling.

Whatever Dex just said, it makes Chowder release another sigh. “Well, I don’t think you can destroy it any further.” There’s something in his voice that I can’t pinpoint but am bugged by. Maybe I’m just getting woozy. “So how about you tend to him now, and I’ll clean up this mess and play damage control with Bitty. Agreed?”

Silence.

“ _Agreed?_ ” Now _that_ quality in Chowder’s voice is instantly recognizable. It’s his goalie mode, and the way it demands zero dissent raises my hairs on end even though I’m not even the target. “‘Swawesome. I think this is yours.”

Barely a few seconds pass before Dex sheepishly shuffles into the bathroom with a hammer clutched in one hand and an old heavy-duty box in the other. He sets the items down to the side, opens up the box, and begins methodically washing his hands with each scrubbing motion accompanied by repetitive counting under his breath. Each opposing hand and digit getting an equal number of respective motions. I decide it best not to make note of the continued stiffness in his shoulders or how he doesn’t move his jaw with the count.

I also decide not to note that he’s still only wearing a towel.

When Dex crouches next to me, I half-expect him to snatch my hand up and forcefully rip off the towel. Instead, he takes my arm in a grasp so soft that it takes me a moment to register his touch. When he moves his hands, my arm moves with them as if without prompting or resistance. When he lifts the towel away, I barely feel the fabric becoming unstuck. And even though his callouses may be rock-hard, I don’t feel them pushing into or scraping at my skin at all as he guides me back to the sink and gently washes my arm again under warm water.

Of course, a lot of that could just be the pain masking things. And despite his care, my arm spasms and I bite back a hiss with each sting.

Still, between his gentle motions and frigid hands, I don’t doubt that Dex could handle a snowflake without breaking it. And even with the dull roar of pain, something about the contact of his skin on mine stimulates a sensation that I can’t place and never remember getting while in close proximity with him before.

Mentally shaking away the surreality, I decide to inject some levity: “Yo, I’m supposed to be the Nurse.”

Dex just gives me a look — one suggesting how stupid it is to chirp the guy who’s working on your wound — before turning his attention back on the arm.

“No yellow, which is good. No large fragments or severe ragged edges either,” Dex mutters while closely examining the tear. He then makes eye contact with me for the first time today. “Probably don’t need stitches, but it’s still a fucking mess.”

“Oh.”

My response garners a snort. Still, he continues on: “It’s a Sunday, so you only have two options. I can take you to the hospital. Or I can patch this up right now. If you choose Option B, you should still go to Student Health asap for them to take another look and write up a note for the coaches. So—”

“B.”

Dex’s eyes widen. Even I’m a bit surprised at the speed of my response.

“Are you sure?” he asks with an intense gaze as if he expects me to take back my answer.

It’s at this point I realize that there’s one other emotion accompanying Dex’s anger:

Guilt.

Which is fucking bizarre. I mean, he just got cranky when I full-on broke my arm, but me cutting myself open a bit makes me look like he's ready to take a whip to himself.

Instead of acknowledging that though, I firmly state, “I’m sure.”

Dex’s ears darken for a couple seconds before he mutters a quick affirmation and gets to work.

After he physically removes any remaining pieces of debris and washes the wound again — each consecutive wash doesn’t make the water contact sting any less — Dex applies some ointment. It’s then that he murmurs, “I shouldn’t have waited.”

 _Oh._ That explains the guilt. It was something in his control.

I’m not going to say it’s alright — I’m clearly not alright — but I still counter, “These things happen. Can’t fix everything.”

“But I could have fixed _that_. I already knew there was a problem. But instead, I—”

“— focused on your schoolwork. How _terrible_ ,” I deadpan with a roll of my eyes. “I don’t get what a lot of it meant, but even I could tell you got a ridiculous workload. Look me in the eye and say that you don’t.”

Dex’s face twists in frustration again, but he doesn’t argue with me as he holds the wound closed while applying steri strips. After placing the last strip and wrapping my arm, Dex grunts that the job’s complete and reminds me to check in with Student Health tommorow.

The pain isn’t gone, but it’s definitely minimized and no longer comes in waves that leave me trembling and short of breath. The way my arm’s been patched up also allows me movement with minimal expected discomfort.

I thank Dex, which just gets another grunt as he motions me out but stays where he is.

When I exit the bathroom, I see Chowder sweeping at the obliterated remains of what used to be the banister segment. He pauses to wave me on while staring at me in a way that alternates between unreadable and unnervingly knowing.

It’s probably best that I ignore that last part.


	3. Chapter 3

“DON’T COME IN!”

When someone screams that statement upon your entry into a room, and that scream is coupled with a view of their hunched back turned to you, initial instincts tend to kick into full gear with an appropriate immediate response.

Well with Dex being that someone, my Pavlovian response manifests in a… strong shout as I clap my hand over my eyes, reverse course back up the stairs, and punctuate my retreat with the slamming of the door.

As I lean against the opposite wall and take a breather, my heart rate slows and vision clears enough to open my thoughts for contemplation. By contemplation, I mean a reevaluation of Dex’s… habits. In all honesty, I’m not sure which  is more surprising: that it took this long for me to come across him polishing his lobster, that he’s actually doing it in the first place… or that he was outside his bungalow to do it. I mean, it’s not my place to assume… but one can’t help but wonder.

“Nurse?” comes out a sheepish call. A moment later, the door opens a smidge, and a red-faced Dex pokes his head out. “You there?”

Despite him looking right at me, I answer, “Nope?”

He doesn’t call me out on my sarcasm, but simply opens the door in full to state, “You can come in now.”

Despite all rationality screaming at me to forget laundry, go back to my room, and allow the awkward to diffuse to an appropriate level, I take a couple steadying breaths and follow Dex into the depths.

“Yo, Poindexter, we have socks for a reason,” I lecture upon reaching the bottom of the stairs. “Next time you want some alone time, please—“

Words die on my tongue and my steps falter as my eyes fall on where Dex had been.

Sitting there is small wooden bookcase.

When I look back at him, he just glances off to the side and mutters, “You have too many damn books for the provided shelf. Thought something should be done before there’s another accident or some shit.” Despite his words, he fails to incorporate the usual edge to them.

As I approach the bookcase, and despite knowing what the answer will be, I ask, “Where’d you buy it?”

Dex’s response doesn’t disappoint: “I didn’t.”

 _Just to be sure…_ “Where’d you borrow it?”

He shuffles on the spot and fiddles with with his pockets. “I didn’t.”

_Damn…_

It’s common knowledge in the Haus that Dex can work with wood, and not in a euphemistic sort of way. The little sanctuaries that he made is testament to that. Not to mention the seamless installing of a replacement banister segment within a week of the… incident. On that note, Chowder’s damage control — involving a lot of puppy eyes at Bitty coupled with some pointing at my injured arm — ensured that the fixing costs were covered and the incident wasn’t immortalized as a tweet.

Still, I thought that skillset was just relegated to keeping the Haus functional. Like when he also fixed the frame to Chowder’s window.

The sight before me is a testament to a couple facts. And not just that the wood he was handling minutes prior is still not a euphemism.

“So where did you do this?” I ask. I’m not sure how long it takes to make furniture, but there’s no way he could have done this within the hour I was gone, and there’s no way he could have everything here without alerting someone.  

“Samwell’s shop class,” Dex states with a shrug. “It’s free for students to use, so it’s a waste not to take advantage of it. Once I got the sections done, I brought them here to assemble.”

Okay, so the putting-together part _was_ done here, which I am pretty impressed about… and is _not_ a reflection of past experiences with IKEA. But I digress.

In any case, Dex’s comment that the pieces were done in a shop class confirms to me that the thing doesn’t consist of a cheap prefabricated kit. _Speaking of which…_

“Where'd you get the wood?” I punctuate my question by rapping my knuckles on the mirrored finish. Yeah, there’s no way in hell this is plywood or any other cheap substitute — I may not be versed in the trades, but I also didn’t grow up surrounded by the finer things in life without picking up the ability to recognize quality when I see it — and I’m trying to wrap my mind around the idea of penny-pinching Poindexter splurging on what’s clearly high-end hardwood for a bookcase.

A bookcase that’s for _me_.

I’m saved from dwelling on any possible implications by Dex’s answer: “Uncle had to cut down an old maple. When he went down to New York couple weekends ago, made sense to ask if he had pieces to spare.” Another shrug as if requesting some material to make furniture for someone is no biggie. “So… what do you think?”

Upon closer inspection, the main thing that’s obvious is that there are no screws. Instead the whole thing is held together with trapezoidal joints like a three-dimensional jigsaw. All joints are so secure that they don’t budge at all when I rock the bookcase a bit. An exhale of clear relief from Dex hints that he expected my test, and it keeps me from feeling guilty for doing that in front of him.

As I run my fingers along the joints and wonder how Dex fit it all together so seamlessly, I come across the carvings.

They are easy to miss at first glance, and the bird’s eye patterning of the wood itself serves as an effective masking. At just the right angle though, the light makes the shallow designs pop out. All across the surface, lines crisscross and wind around to form elaborate imagery. Interwoven knots repeating on the front of the shelves and border. Angular mazes forming a perimeter for the side panels, with the middle of the panels occupied by divers stylized beasts.

Despite all these designs, one element sticks out over the rest:

Leaves.

Leaves drifting off a twisting tree to swirl in a clockwise spiral around a sun on the right side panel. Leaves drifting off a seaweed frond to swirl in a counterclockwise spiral around a moon on the left side panel. Leaves attached to the knotwork like the entire front has been overtaken by a vine. Leaves even carved into the back paneling despite the fact that they’ll be obscured by any books.

Despite the fact that Dex still views a lot of Samwell’s artists, sans Lardo, with hefty suspicion — okay, even I’ll admit that their stuff can get pretty fucking weird — this piece demonstrates that he’s capable of more than a little artistic creativity. That little tidbit is something I could mull over. However, I choose to mull over something else as I close my eyes and feel the texture of the delicate grooves:

_He really did make this for me._

How long did he work on these alone? Part of me wonders if he actually finished the structural part a while ago and made the designs someplace else. I have a feeling his artistry isn’t something he likes showing off, and I don’t know what to make of the fact that it’s me whom he’s showing it to.

In the end, what do I think?

“I think it’s beautiful.”

Which is the truth. It’s also the simplest answer that allows me to bypass the ever-tangled bramble that constitutes the subject of William Poindexter.

I can barely hear Dex’s murmured response as I stand back up, but what I catch sounds like something along the lines of, “I’m glad you think so.”

“I also think that I’ve never been more glad to have my initial instincts proven wrong.”

 _For fuck’s sake, Nurse._ I immediately regret what I say, my regret is codified as Dex’s expression goes from a scrunched-up confused scowl to eyes widening in realization, and I steel myself for the coming storm.

Instead of the expected angry tirade or demand that I depart back for the surface world, I get laughter.

As the laughs continue, my regret is replaced by mild irritation. “Chill, Poindexter.” Despite that irritation however, the corners of my mouth twitch. Dex has a nice laugh.

“I…” he wheezes while doubled over, “I can’t believe you thought I was fucking _jacking it_!”

“Yo, you weren’t standing where I was!” I bark while throwing up my hands. “Not my fault it looks like you have a literal furniture fetish.”

In the wake of my pronouncement, the laughter dies and silence is ready to blanket the room.

That is… if not for the fact that a voice, neither mine nor Dex’s, cuts in: “Uh…” _Shit._

Both Dex and I whip our heads upwards to behold Chowder frozen at the top of the stairs. “I’m… just… gonna come back for my laundry… later,” he mutters before holding up a double thumbs-up, slowly backing out, pivoting on his heels, and hurrying away.

As we look back at each other, Dex finally finishes playing the role of a fish gasping for air and regains his voice in true Dex style: “What.”

Fortunately, I have an eloquent reply of my own:

“What?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come down to my [tumblr](http://randomnoteforfuturereference.tumblr.com) if you prefer to read the fic that way or want to see (or even discuss) headcanons about these fools.


	4. Chapter 4

_Where is it? Shit. WHERE THE FUCK IS IT?_

This has been my fourth rummage-through.

But no matter how many times I feel through and turn out my pockets… no matter how many times I remove all the contents of my messenger bag… no matter how much I try to regulate my breathing and block out the pounding of blood in my ears… there’s little denying that that I’m missing the most important item for tonight — even more than my phone, which is also missing — and there’s nothing I can do about it.

_*CRACK!*_

At least, if my inkling about it being back at the Haus is true, nothing I can do without getting completely soaked to the bone. The explosive crash of lightning and thunder — close enough to rattle the old windows to the café and make the many of the patrons jump — mocks me with that fact. The rolling din is loud enough that I don’t even have to look outside to know that there are sheets of rain obscuring the view of anything across the street.  

Sam, the café’s owner and emcee who’s still in the process of drafting the schedule for tonight’s open mic night, knows me well enough to offer an understanding grimace. And I know them well enough to know I’m going to be placed in a later time slot, which the part of me that isn’t freaking out is thankful for.  

Some look down on reciting via reading and say that it ruins the performance. I don’t deny that someone just staring at their paper is poor presentation as they aren’t interacting with the audience. However, I rebuke any inflexible “memorization or GTFO” mentality.  

Having the words in front of me helps to focus my thoughts and tempo, especially when it’s one of the longer poems. I don’t need, or want for that matter, to read line by line. Instead, an occasional glance is all I need, and I feel it helps my own performance when I use the reading material itself to gesture with.

Anyways, whatever. _It’s chill._ While it’s not ideal, it’s not a full loss either. I do have poems memorized. _I just need to—_

_*CRACK!*_

This time, the meteorological clash is loud and unmuffled enough to make me join everyone else in jolting up and looking towards the front of the café.

You know those scenes in the movies where a crack of lightning and thunder draws everybody’s attention to an ominous figure looming in a doorway?

Well that’s playing out right now — with the added bonus of a cold raindrop-laden gust blowing through the café — and considering the figure in question, I’m not even sure that he’s aware of the imagery being created.

But we are.

I mean, when someone barges in from a storm… it’s bound to be a sight. Especially when that someone is six-foot-plus ginger — who has never shown his face in any poetry event before — clad unironically in work jeans, flannel, and a Carhartt.

Unaware of the focus on him, he wastes no time in slamming the door shut, blocking out the cold and muffling the sounds of the tempest in the process. One hand wipes at his face while the other clutches tightly around his abdomen as if he’s in pain, which I don’t doubt considering the intensity of his panting and blushing. Only after his heaving breaths subside, does Dex notice the attention he’s drawn. The reaction is immediate, and he demonstrates that it’s possible to have a blush over a blush.

Despite his mounting mortification — at this point, I don’t doubt that he can dry himself with his own blush — Dex still scans the crowd until his eyes meet mine, heaves a clear sigh of relief, and walks in my direction.   

Okay, it’s more of a waddle. A squishy, puddle-tracking, clothes-plastered waddle that progresses as a collective set of eyes silently tracks his movement.

Clear the schedule. Here’s the star of the show.

Sam, who’s standing right next to me, whispers, “Is that your—”

“Yep.”

“… Wow.”

“Yep.”

When Dex gets close enough for me to feel the humid heat of embarrassment radiating off of him, I don’t hesitate in getting the first word in: “The fuck, Poindexter?”

Instead of answering me straight up, Dex mutters a curse-laden comment about how difficult it was to find the joint as he methodically wipes his hand. Hand mostly dry, he rapidly extracts two phones from his pockets and all-but shoves them into my hands.

One of the damp-but-working phones is mine.

I try to come up with a response — not sure whether to thank him for the phone or question the surrealism of this moment — but my words die as he lifts his shirt to reveals a small leather-bound booklet.  

My poem booklet.

“Sorry for carrying it like this,” he mumbles while extracting my booklet with his fingertips from the waist of his jeans.

When he holds the booklet out to me, I almost drop the phones in my hands and barely have enough wits to set them on the table. The booklet is still warm to the touch. Any spot of water that made it through is small and isolated enough for me remove with a single wipe of my sleeve, and none of the pages have been marred.

“How did you—”  

“It was on the kitchen counter,” he deadpans.

“Oh.”

Sam, after staring at the booklet with probably the same amount of wide-eyed shock that I feel, coughs and whispers, “So… Derek, does this mean you’re fine with the schedule being the original plan?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Great,” they note with a jotting down on their tablet. “And, um, Dex? Is that right?”

Dex’s whips his head towards Sam in surprise. “Yeah, it is.”

“Do you want to dry off?”

It’s only then that Dex notices the stream of water that he’s tracked inside, and he reddens once more while letting off another string of curses wrapped around apologies.

“It’s okay! It’s okay!” Sam assures him. “There are towels, dry clothes, and a room here you can change in.” To punctuate that statement, they rummage for a t-shirt from the merch counter and a pair of jeans from the donations bin before pointing Dex to the backroom.

I don't think anything of it besides it being nice that Dex won’t be a dripping mess for the whole night.

When he emerges a few minutes later from the back room, I realize the grave error of taking the action at face value.

Now despite all the jokes about ears, freckles, and the fact that his hands aren’t going to win any beauty contest, Dex has a… nicely proportioned body.

That doesn’t mean I want it highlighted in front of me in the form of a black neon-designed t-shirt that’s at least one size smaller than his usual, or ripped jeans that are more than a bit on the form-fitting side. Dex holds those jeans — not to mention their wearers — in so much contempt, but I find myself unable to revel in the irony playing out.

I mean, if you hate an outfit so much, how can you make it look so good on yourself? _How?_  I have zero clue, but somehow Dex pulls off the look as he shuffles over to us.

And judging from the not-so-subtle glances by others in the crowd, I’m not the only one aware of that fact.  

I turn to Sam with narrowed eyes. “You’re evil.”

“Hey,” they rebuke, “I’m just keeping things safe.”

“And those were the only sizes available?” My question is rhetorical.

Sam just smirks before greeting Dex, “Hey, I hope everything fits well.”

Like I said: evil.

Dex scowls at no one in particular. “I don’t know how anyone can wear these,” he grumbles while attempting to tug those jeans up more as if they are made to sit close to the waist like he prefers.

It doesn’t matter that I know his fashion preferences. What matters is that those jeans can’t go any higher — if he was a citizen of this decade, he’d know that — and his only success is making them more… snug. A quick glance around reveals that others notice, and I try not to think about the fact that Dex’s body is in full view. Or that the shirt leaves none of his upper-body musculature to the imagination as it tenses, relaxes, shifts, and ripples with the slightest movement. Or that the editors of the _Swallow_ are present in the crowd.  

“Chill,” I mutter out of hope that I can rile and distract Dex from his _obscene_ exercise in futility. All it does is make him focus his scowl at me as he continues his attempts. _Stop it!_

Maybe it’s exhaustion, or maybe he finally has learned the errors of his way. Whatever the reason, Dex finally stops with a frustrated toss of his hands. Still, despite his clear disdain for the attire, he turns to Sam with an appreciative nod. “Thanks for the dry clothes, and sorry about the mess.”

They wave him off with a grin. “Don’t worry about that. And you don’t have to return the jeans tonight.”

The nature of that statement makes me continue my side-eye.

Dex, being Dex, completely misses that. “I’ll give them back after washing,” he says before picking at the shirt. “What about this?”

“Oh that’s yours!” declares Sam. “And don’t worry about cost. After what you just did, it’s on the house.”

_What._

Dex freezes. “What?”

“If you hadn’t come here, the scheduling would have been messed up, which would have been a hassle for us.”

I can see the scales balancing in Dex’s mind as he fiddles with the sleeve. “The fabric _is_ nice…” _Nonononono—_ “Thanks.”

Sam makes sure eye contact is maintained between me and them. “Think nothing of it.”

_Evil._

“Welp, I best get this thing rolling. T’was good meeting you,” Sam states while shaking Dex’s hand before turning to me. “We’ll be live in thirty.”

Despite my current disgruntlement with Sam, I still order dinner and drinks — Dex’s clearly hungry and his wallet's busy drying, so I don’t even have to exert myself much to justify buying this round _—_ once we take our seats in the ever-crowding space.

“Lots of people,” Dex mutters as his eyes dart around. By now, everyone’s attention has turned elsewhere, so there’s that at least.

“Chyeah. Premier monthly poetry event in Norfolk County.” There are even key figures, critics, and academics from Boston, Cambridge, and Providence in attendance. Thankfully, they tend to arrive late, and I don’t think any were here to witness Dex’s arrival and… fashion debut.

“Huh…”

I can tell he feels completely out of his depth here. Despite that, and despite the weather having cleared up outside, he stays by my side.

It’s probably because the food and shakes are great.

Still… “I want to thank you getting this,” I say while patting my booklet.

Dex fiddles with a sweet potato fry. “We’re supposed to have each other’s backs, yeah? I know this whole poetry thing means a lot to you. I don’t get it, but…”

But he helped out anyways. I… _fuck._

Well, if he’s going to be here… “Um, would you mind if I read a piece that’s a bit based on you?”

Dex tenses with a scowl. Not a hostile scowl. Just surprised and a bit pensive. “It’s not an ode to lobsters, is it.”

A chuckle bubbles up from me at that. “Don’t worry, it’s not.” I open my booklet to the relevant page and slide it over to him. “I bet most of the guys at the Haus wouldn’t know it’s you without me spelling it out.”

As Dex’s eyes flit over the words, his scowl scrunches in concentration. Then it dissipates with a raise of his eyebrows and widening of his eyes.

When it’s clear that he’s done, I note, “If you’re not comfortable, I won’t read it. I wasn’t even planning to originally—”

“No, it’s okay!”

Any incoming explanation dies on my lips and is replaced with a simple, “… It’s okay?”

“It’s just a bit surprising. That’s all. But if that’s what you want…” A patented Poindexter shrug caps his statement.

“And you think it will be alright there?” I ask with a nod to the stage.

Another shrug. “Hell if I know. My opinion means jack shit, but it looks solid to me. So if you feel comfortable with it, I don’t see why not.”

Dex’s opinion matters a lot more than he thinks. Not that he needs to hear that from me. “Thanks.”

His ears redden the slightest. “Like I said. Got your back.”

Few minutes till curtain, Ford rushes in panting with breathless apologies for being late until I assure her that we haven’t even started yet. She does a double-take at the sight of Dex, but to her credit doesn’t comment on his appearance. Instead she simply expresses her happiness at seeing another friendly face, a sentiment that he reciprocates with a grin and a sliding of the fries basket to her. I ignore the inscrutable glance she give me.  

Finally, Sam comes up to the stage, welcomes everyone, and calls me up as the first performer.

With pats on the back from Dex and Ford, and a chorus of snapping from the crowd, I make my way up to the stage, slide on my reading glasses, and open up the booklet.

“Yo, I’m Derek, and my piece for this evening is _Threads_ …”


End file.
